


Fire and Frost

by Carapatzin



Series: Bring the Storm [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, I Have a Thing For Elves, Internal Conflict, M/M, Multi, Multiple Lavellans, Multiple Wardens, One Shot Collection, Raunchy humor, Romance, Sappy, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carapatzin/pseuds/Carapatzin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance, angst, ridiculous humor and sass, sexual situations, and other things: my collection of one-shots. </p><p>Will contain meme prompts, random ideas that sprang out of my dumb head, and other things.  These are intended to all be set in the "Tale of Two Lavellans" universe.</p><p>Open to requests!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Frost

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this a look! If you'd like to see a situation written, or maybe just have a word/idea/quote you'd like me to work off, feel free to drop a request.
> 
> Chapter One: (Dorian/Male Non-Inquisitor Lavellan) Dorian has a lot of expectations during his first real conversation with Finn Lavellan after their introduction in Redcliffe. Finn meets absolutely none of those expectations.

Fire had always fascinated Dorian, ever since a young age.  Maybe because it was lively, _real;_ it warmed you and kept you alive just as readily as it burned you if you got too close.  Danger and soft heat, savage wildness and comfort all rolled into each flickering orange flame.  The sheer power of it fascinated him, too, the way heat coursed through his hands when he called on it.

For now, though, in this freezing—emphasis on _freezing—_ night in the Hinterlands, the fire would just be his warmth.

He tried not to shiver where he sat, although Maker knew the temperature outside had dropped to absolutely offensive levels of cold.  This was nothing like the balmy air of Tevinter, his _home_ whether he thought of it fondly or not.

“Quaint” was a good word to describe the Hinterlands, Redcliffe, all of it.  A word that wouldn’t ruffle too many feathers.  Here there were none of the lovely, ancient buildings he was so used to seeing in Minrathous and Qarinus and Vyrantium—just sad, scuffed up peasants, grass and dirt and trees, and _livestock._   Never in Tevinter would he have nearly tripped over a chicken while walking along a road.

Still, he was here to stop Alexius, and stop him he would.

Not to mention he wasn’t exactly welcome back home, with the way he’d left things.

He brought his attention back to the campfire in front of him, imaging the streets of Minrathous in its flickering, animated light, trying to curb his homesickness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elf beside him cast him a curious glance, then turn back to looking at the campfire.

Finn was a strange one, Dorian mused, and not at all in a negative way.  Elves down south tended to react angrily in the presence of a mage from Tevinter.  The scale ranged from nervous glances, to lewd hand gestures, all the way to looking like they were about to attack on the spot.  Yet Finn had done none of those things upon seeing Dorian.  The elf had kept those lively blue eyes of his fixed on Dorian’s every move, answering every question with a friendliness that Dorian was fairly certain wasn’t faked.

Odd. Yet…pleasing. 

Suspiciously, Dorian almost wondered if the snowy-haired Dalish man was just waiting to turn on him later.  It wasn’t the nicest of thoughts to have, yet Dorian had never considered himself a nice man.

He decided to strike up another conversation, just to see if he could figure Finn out a little.

“So,” he said, “you’re Dalish, yes?  That’s the word for it down south?”

He braced himself for a reaction.  Perhaps ‘ _it’s the word for it everywhere, you racist fuck.’_ Maybe a middle finger raised in his direction.  Who knew, really?

Instead, Finn nodded.  “That’s it.  For me, personally, you could probably swap out Dalish for Crazy-Arsehole-Elf and still be correct.”

Dorian immediately found himself relaxing, and he laughed softly as he studied Finn’s features.  The elf really was nice to look at—straight nose, well-proportioned jaw, smooth tanned skin with a light golden tone, blue eyes that reminded Dorian of glacier water.  And the blue tattoo lines sweeping from his forehead and down his cheeks, trailing down his neck, sweeping over toned muscles on tanned arms.  He seemed to have nice hair, too; white as pure porcelain, fluffy, naturally in waves.

“I haven’t seen any solid evidence for ‘arsehole’,” Dorian said.  Really, if Finn thought _he_ was an arsehole, then he was completely deluded.  “Crazy, though, is probably a fitting description.  Not many people cause a blizzard in a Chantry in their zeal to take down a demon.”

The ice had responded to Finn’s calls in the Chantry with a wild readiness that Dorian had never seen before, and it fascinated him, to say the least.  Not to mention Finn’s fighting style, all staff arcs and strong movements and Dalish grace, was immensely pleasing to watch.  He almost felt bad not helping Finn defeat the rage demon in there, but the fellow mage had fared just fine on his own.

“I see why the dwarf has dubbed you ‘Frosty’,” he added.

“Yeah…Varric does that.”  Finn’s expression was fond, his gaze flicking minutely to the tent the dwarf had gone into.

The dirt was uncomfortably hard under Dorian’s backside, and he seemed to be somewhat on a rather pointed pebble; he shifted and leaned a little to the side, bracing one hand on the ground. 

May as well just come out and say it.  “At any rate, I hope our people’s shared histories don’t cause any animosity between us.  I _am_ here to help, after all.”

_And I’m rather enjoying your smile._

“Trust me,” Finn said with a disarming chuckle, the orange glow of the fire casting shadows along the lines of his face as he looked at Dorian, “I’m the last person you’ll have a problem with.”

Another unexpected reaction.  Finn barely even seemed Dalish, the way he just grinned charmingly and chattered about life rather than pointing an arrow at anything that breathed wrong.

His curiosity more than piqued, Dorian thought for a moment, holding his hand out to trail his fingers through the tendrils of flame.  They brushed against his skin, warm and friendly and familiar.

After a moment, though, he drew his hand back to his side.  “I’m curious, then…what is it like, to be a mage amongst the Dalish?  I can’t imagine your people have educational circles like we do in Tevinter.”

He braced himself again.  How might Finn respond to that?  ‘ _Of course we don’t have them.  We’re dirt poor because you people destroyed our homeland.  Thanks for that.’_

“Terrifying, during the early years,” Finn said instead, resting an elbow on one knee.  There wasn’t even a hint of irritability in his features.  “A clan won’t tolerate too many mages at a time.  Had I not proven myself and been chosen as the Keeper’s apprentice, I might’ve been thrown out of the clan to be wolf-fodder.  We have to choose the clan’s safety as a whole over an individual mage’s.”

What a foreign concept.  Dorian whistled, intrigued.  “Rather barbaric, don’t you think?”

At this point, he was almost experimenting with Finn’s friendliness, seeing if the elf would bristle at any of his questions.

“It is,” Finn agreed, his voice mild.  “Some castaway mages find their way to civilization and are taken in by an alienage, or by a clan that doesn’t have too many already.  Or brought to a circle.  Those are the lucky ones.  Most of them, well…get devoured by a wild animal.”

And yet this one had survived, even with the odds so stacked against him.  Dorian could see the wear and tear on Finn’s features if he looked hard enough—lightly calloused palms, wiry muscles that spoke of years of physical labor, a wicked scar down the right side of his face.

“Such different lives we lead,” he mused aloud.  It was almost strange for them to sit side by side, Tevinter mage and elf, wealth and wilderness, fire and frost.  “Lovely staff you have.  May I take a look at it?”

The first time he’d asked that question—to a human mage, no less—he’d gotten a snarl and a vicious look.  Yet Finn just said “sure” and slid the staff over their laps to Dorian, handing over the weapon he’d been holding like a precious possession all evening.

Dorian took a moment to study it, lifting it vertically.  He could see the worn grip where Finn’s right hand always rested, shallow depressions in the deep reddish brown of the wood.  It was well-crafted, and strong; someone had put a great deal of effort into it.

“Mahogany?” he guessed.  The grains felt soft under his palms.

“Rosewood,” Finn corrected.  Dorian looked over just in time and caught his smile.  “I’ve had it since I was a child.”

The wood had a noticeable chill to it, although it barely rivaled the frigid air all around them.  “It’s cold.  Someone doesn’t use many flame spells, do they?”

Finn laughed lightly, holding Dorian’s gaze.  “Not many, no.  I suppose it’s painfully obvious which element I prefer.”

“You were skilled at a young age, I take it.”  Not wanting to be an inadvertent thief, Dorian returned the staff to Finn, who absentmindedly cradled it with his hands like he didn’t even know he was doing it.  “Considering you’re sitting here and not a pile of rotting bones out in the forest.”

Finn slipped into a smile again.  “I’m all right at it.  Enough for my clan, at least.  And enough to not end up as a sad little elf-smear on the ground after the Battle of Denerim.”

 _All right at it?_ Dorian found himself smirking.

“So you’re of the humble variety,” he said.  “One does not survive the Fifth Blight by being ‘ _weeeeelll-I’m-sort-of-an-okay-mage,’_ Finn.”

He’d only said the elf’s name once before, and he found himself liking it, liking the way his tongue caressed the roof of his mouth when voicing the double ‘n’s.

Although if he thought about tongues and caressing too much…well, he didn’t need to scare Finn off with that kind of talk.  The fellow mage seemed attracted to him—which Dorian was used to, he had to admit—but he wouldn’t knowingly seduce this one.  Finn didn’t deserve any sort of Tevene deception, no matter how good Dorian was at it.

No matter how tempting it suddenly was.

“But I digress,” Dorian said, forcibly steering himself away from the fantasizing.  “What was the battle like?  What do you remember?  I was always fascinated by it.”

And Finn started talking, telling Dorian all about the fighting in Denerim, and just when Dorian thought he’d finished a sentence, he sprang into another one.  His expressions were animated, excited, clear remembrance in his eyes.  Dorian noted that Finn’s accent grew even more pronounced the more he talked—a Starkhaven accent, from the lilting, unique sound of it.  He went on for who knew how long, telling Dorian about the trip there, the organization of forces, the hordes of darkspawn, how much he’d actually enjoyed the frenzy of such a fight.  ( _That_ Dorian could identify with.)  But all too soon he was ending it with an “I just rambled, didn’t I?  How long did I go on?  Sorry,” as he tried to comb his own hair with his fingers.

“Ha!”  Dorian couldn’t contain his own burst of amused—and stupefied—laughter.  “You’re _sorry?_ For talking?  I asked, didn’t I?”  Idly, pondering life, he rubbed his own jaw.  “I can’t say I don’t understand enjoying a good battle.”

Finn flashed him a happy grin, letting out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.  “Glad _somebody_ does.  It’s embarrassing now—but I actually tried to bet one of the dwarves there that I could get an ice bolt in a hurlock’s mouth.  He, uh…I don’t think he was amused.”

Ah, gambling.  A pastime both relaxing and habit-forming.  Dorian was admittedly familiar with the concept.

“That sounds like an entertaining bet,” he found himself saying.  “I’ll take it.”

The elf next to him sputtered.  Actually _sputtered._ It was a humorous, undignified noise, and Dorian actually found it endearing, if he’d allow himself to admit that even inwardly.

“You will?” Finn said, recovering himself.

“Surprised?”  Dorian was _beyond_ amused.  “I happen to like bets just as much.  I’ll bet you an ale that you _can’t_ get an ice bolt into an enemy’s mouth.  And no cheating by splitting the thing’s face open.  It has to be perfectly in its mouth or you lose.  One try only.”

Finn’s eyes sparked electric blue.  “You’re on.  But if I win, it can’t be shitty ale.”

“That’s a tall order,” Dorian said, “seeing as we’re in _Ferelden.”_

Finn shifted, swiveling to face him a little, leaning a little closer with what Dorian assumed was a subconscious sense of interest.  “You like a challenge, don’t you?  _Oh._ I’ve got one for you.  I’ll bet you can’t chug an entire flagon of bad dwarven ale.  Two silvers.  If you spit any of it out, I win.”

If Dorian still had access to his father’s fortunes, he might’ve considered two silvers a sad, measly amount.  But he’d been forced to sell his own birthright amulet just to give himself money after leaving Tevinter the way he did, so he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge.

But _dwarven ale…_ sweet Maker.  He snorted in disgust.  Last time he’d had dwarven ale, it had tasted more like gravelly soil than alcohol, with a barbaric hint of dwarven blood and sweat.  Not a pleasing drink.  Yet Dorian found he couldn’t just say _no._

“ _Finn,”_ he said, “I hadn’t taken you for a sadist.”  And yet… “I’ll take that one as well, if I must.  But if I’m going to be polluting myself with dwarven swill, I may as well make you suffer in return.  How’s this—whichever one of us can chug a flagon _faster_ wins the bet.”

Finn scrunched up his nose.  “Oh, _creators._ Vile.  I can’t _not_ take that bet.  I should warn you, though…I get _really_ silly when I’m drunk.”

Dorian really wanted to find out what he meant.

“Such a tragedy,” he teased.

Something thumped nearby, and Dorian startled.  Out here in the oak woods surrounding Redcliffe’s farms, it was easy to imagine some detestable creature had wandered its way over in hopes of gorging itself.  But no—out of one of the canvas tents came the dwarf Varric’s voice, and Dorian realized he’d merely thumped his fist on the tent wall.  “Count me in!”

Finn’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he craned his head to see the tent over the campfire.  “Weren’t you supposed to have a headache from all of our bickering and bitching earlier?”

“ _Please,”_ said the dwarf within the tent.  “Nothing could stop me from taking a good bet, Frosty.  Tell you what: I’ll up the ante, but I get to pick the ale.”

Dorian thought he’d taken an immediate liking to the short-statured man, but now he was wondering if he’d inadvertently befriended an actual sadist.

“Piss in it!” the elven girl, Sera, crowed from within her own tent, then giggled madly.

Dorian blanched.

“And you thought _I_ was the sadist,” Finn muttered.

“You weren’t joking about this odd bunch of yours,” Dorian said.  And he hadn’t even met the bulk of them yet.  The Inquisitor, Finn’s sister, was en route to Haven just as they were, and Dorian imagined he’d have all sorts of strange fellows to meet once they rendezvoused somewhere along the road.   He lifted his head and called to Varric, “be aware, dwarf, that it’s _your_ boots I might vomit on.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Varric said, like he’d taken that chance many times before.  Then, with a thump and a rustle, he fell silent.

Finn yawned loudly next to Dorian, covered his mouth with a tanned hand.  His ears twitched a little downwards as he did so, making Dorian wonder about the range of motion of an elf’s long, pointed ears.  His family had owned slaves, but Dorian hadn’t himself, and regrettably hadn’t spent much time studying their ear movements.

Something to add to the list of to-dos.  Elven eyeshine was another thing Dorian wanted to study; _tapetum lucidum,_ he’d heard it called back home.  Finn wasn’t hard to spot in the dark, the way his pupils flashed bright green when he turned his head.

“I’m turning in for the night,” Finn announced.  “If my tent goes up in smoke, my corpse is blaming you.”

Dorian half-smiled.  “Fair enough.”

He left Finn to his own devices and stood, making his way to the only unoccupied tent around the fire.  Mutedly he heard Finn squabbling with Varric about something—shame Dorian couldn’t understand precisely what they were saying—but he let it go and sat cross-legged on the tent floor, dragging a heavy fur blanket over his legs and opening a manual on Fereldan climates to a dog-eared page.

Looked like Haven would be even chillier than this.  Drat.

Without warning someone pushed their way into the tent; Dorian looked up to see eyeshine and white hair.  “You’re not one for knocking, are you?” he asked Finn.  “Varric gave you the eviction notice?”

“Yeah.”  Finn sat, letting the tent flap slip noisily back into place.  “Exactly how does one knock on canvas?”

“With their knuckles, naturally,” Dorian said.  Not that he was objecting to Finn coming in here the way he did—coming in at all, really.  “I suppose if you want to be exemplary and achieve the right sound, you could hold your staff up to the entrance and knock on that.  Rather too late, though.”

Finn leaned back on his hands and arched an eyebrow.  “I guess I’m too plebeian for your fancy staff-knocking.”

Staff-knocking almost sounded dirty, and Dorian almost snorted.  “You’re fancy enough to use the word _plebeian.”_

“Maybe so,” Finn said with a shrug.

Dorian assessed the situation.  He certainly wasn’t a stranger to having another man in his bed—tent, furs, what have you—but Finn didn’t seem to be as blasé about the notion.  If anything, the elven man actually looked slightly nervous.

No matter.  Dorian was tired from trekking through this Fereldan wilderness, and he wouldn’t let anything deny him sleep.

* * *

 

Dorian awoke to an unexpected situation.

He was lying on his back within the temporary mound of furs; that wasn’t the unexpected part.  No, that honor was reserved for the position Finn had ended up in.

The elf’s head rested just below Dorian’s chest, loose white curls of hair just tickling the fabric of Dorian’s tunic.  And his limbs were flung every which way, one tattooed arm draped loosely over Dorian’s middle.

It was a…pleasant surprise, to put it bluntly.  Dorian couldn’t deny liking the sensation of another man lying on top of him like Finn was.  Anyone else might have pushed him off, but Dorian decided to be greedy and hold on to the positioning for as long as Finn stayed asleep.

Not to mention Finn’s body was _warm._ And the morning air was most assuredly not.

Of course, it didn’t help that blood and heat had already started to rush straight to his groin.  Dorian shifted a little, considered that new development, and grabbed the manual from the corner of the tent to distract himself.

Finn sighed in his sleep, his hand skimming the furs, coming to rest on Dorian’s side.  Dorian almost expected a subconscious grope, but Finn’s touch was almost a soft caress as he curled his fingers a little, gently, then dropped his hand.

Dorian knew Finn hadn’t meant to do that, but it was causing all sorts of unsavory reactions in Dorian’s body all the same.  He shifted again, trying to move so that Finn wasn’t lying directly on his pelvis.

“Turn down the pancakes,” Finn muttered, unconsciously nuzzling his cheek against Dorian’s chest.  “They’re too purple.  It makes them sad.”

 _Maker’s breath…_ Dorian clamped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh too loud, but a snort slipped through the cracks.  Finn was _sleep-talking._ And it was pure, unadulterated nonsense—really, who was terribly concerned about melancholic pancakes?—and he pressed his hand against his mouth even harder, trying as hard as he could to stifle himself.

Eventually, he couldn’t hold it in any longer.  “If you say so,” he answered, allowing himself a quick laugh to get it out of his system.

Finn stirred.  Pressed his hand flat against the furs.  Propped himself up a little.  Forced his glassy eyes open.

All of a sudden he was scrambling upright with a sort of forced panic; Dorian casually flipped a page in the manual and looked up at him.  Cold air flooded over him, its presence invited by the absence of Finn’s warmth, and Dorian tried not to look too chagrined at that.  The elf’s hair was in a fluffed disarray from sleeping, his wintry blue eyes wide and fixed on Dorian’s face.

“ _Creators’ balls,”_ he cursed.  “Creators.  Gods.  _Shite._ I don’t even… I am _so_ sorry—”

Above all, _that_ was what made Dorian lose it, dropping the manual on the furs and bursting into uncontrolled laughter.  The fact that Finn was so frantically apologizing for something Dorian had secretly been enjoying, that Finn hadn’t even _known_ he was doing but had probably subconsciously wanted it all the same… The situation was just too silly to remain serious about.

“Your subconscious couldn’t resist, I take it,” Dorian said; Finn developed an eye twitch.  “No harm done.  At least I got a space heater out of the deal.  Your Fereldan nights are awfully _brisk._ ”

It seemed Finn wasn’t done trying to apologize.  “I should have warned you.”  There was a slight flush under his tanned cheeks—embarrassment, or something more risqué?  “I do that when I sleep.  Sometimes.  Not always.  I did it to Solas the night before.  It’s a bad habit, I know, but I can’t _control_ it, so there’s _that…_ why, exactly, did you not throw me off?”

 _Because I wanted you to stay there,_ Dorian thought. 

“You looked too content to move,” Dorian said.

Finn looked mortified, still, but his eyes kept flickering to meet Dorian’s gaze, their lids a little heavier now that he knew Dorian wasn’t disgusted by his accidental cuddling.  Anything _but._ If having a rather good-looking elf sprawling on top of him at night was Dorian’s price for helping the Inquisition, then he was _more than happy_ to pay it.

“Seriously, I’m so sorry,” Finn was saying.  “If I ever do that again, feel free to slap me, punch me, throw a rock at me, roll me down a hill into a raging river, _anything._ Just, uh…no bears.  Preferably."

Dorian was more likely to roll on top of him than do any of those things.

“No bears,” he said, just to ease Finn’s internal suffering.

Finn cast one last look at Dorian, his eyes searching, then ducked out of the tent and left.

Dorian didn’t want to get up just this second, so he shifted to a sitting position, rubbing his chin in thought.

Whatever he’d been expecting of Finn Lavellan the moment he’d met him…Finn had met absolutely zero of those expectations.  And Dorian was immensely relieved by that.


End file.
